16 Wednesday Nov 2022
Sun fog fills the valley,
white upon white within white;
snow ice holds to even the air.
I woke feeling my womb,
warm, moving, red–
her warmth and my heart one.
Life doesn’t hold us for long,
best to make room for all her aspects.
15 Tuesday Nov 2022
Posted in approaching, night, poems, poetry
≈ Comments Off on Edge of the storm
Blue spruce holds in her generous arms
the whipped cream snow junco ushered in
two nights ago.
In deep dark came his hooded head
and spread wings at the window glass.
As the wind changed, from still
to sweeping, he danced from the blackness
all flutter, gentle and strong,
up the door pane, over to full window beside
and back again.
Back, forth, up, down,
when do songbirds ever enter the night and dance?
Here, at the front edge of the storm,
he arrived, to sit
finally on the low lip of the door frame
and look in with yellow-orange beak
and open breast.
After his hilly flitting away
the snow began falling.
And I smile at the generous arms of the blue spruce
who perches the birds every day.
12 Saturday Nov 2022
Chittering morning birds pull me from the page–
eyes move from word toward sound,
where their light hopping feet bring me to flight
from bare branch, through 17 degree air,
to bark-covered lattice above the front door.
Frost, like gold flakes, falls from their trail in sunlight.
They have such great conversations.
11 Friday Nov 2022
We find ourselves
eventually, or again and again,
at the thought–“I’m this old and
still
I’m not over it.”
Whatever it is.
But with that tiny cruelty and judgment,
if we’re honest,
we can feel the rope tied about us and yanking from
without;
The culture’s voice and ultimatum,
no doubt familial message too,
tugs invisibly and hard.
See the rope for what it is,
make it visible.
Then, only then, can we find ourselves
eventually, and again and again.
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 